Burning the Road
by neuroticris
Summary: Charles Swanisky had been twenty-five years old when he wrote his first and only novel.  Not much is known about him since he promptly disappeared shortly after it was published. Edward Cullen an investigative journalist intends to find out.


**Chapter 1**

Charles Swanisky was a brilliant writer. He had been twenty-five years old when he wrote _Burning the Road_ in 1972. It was his first and only novel. Not much is known about him since he promptly disappeared shortly after it was published. The man had never given an interview and the only photograph of him that was ever taken was at an anti-war rally in 1970.

For the past three decades journalists, reporters, hippies, and aspiring writers have searched high and low for his whereabouts. More often than not, it led to a dead end. It would seem that the man didn't want to be found.

Perhaps I should have left well enough alone...let sleeping dogs lie as the saying goes. Perhaps I would have forgotten about it and just gone about my life. Perhaps everything would have stayed the same. But I didn't. I couldn't. I remember reading _Burning the Road_ in college. I remember feeling that urge, that mad desire to hop on a motorcycle and travel the country. Thinking that perhaps the road would, could teach me what my professors couldn't. Blame it on the hopeful idealism of youth, but I wanted to breathe the fresh air and feel the wind whip against my skin. I wanted to live life not merely experience it.

His words were that powerful. It urged you on. Motivated you to break out of the box.

Or in Swanisky's own words – _Feel it, seek it, burn it_.

As the years passed, I had almost forgotten about that story. It wasn't until I was packing boxes preparing to move in with my girlfriend, Tanya that I came across my old battered copy of _Burning the Road_ that I remembered. I pulled that worn copy out of my stack of old books as if it were a long buried treasure and lost myself in the beat prose of Swanisky. I hadn't noticed my hunger or the passing of time. It wasn't until the sun had dipped below the horizon and the sky was a kaleidoscope of purple, orange and red that I realized the whole day had gone by. It was then that I wondered what had happened to him. Why didn't he write another book? Did he not know how popular his novel was? I flipped the book to the back hoping that perhaps there was something on the cover that I'd missed but it was blank.

Nothing.

I powered up my laptop and typed his name in the search engine. I scrolled through the results hoping that a biography would turn up but they all said pretty much the same thing – he was born in Los Angeles, he had no siblings and _Burning the Road _was his first and only novel.

The more dead ends I hit the more ravenous I became. Maybe it was the journalist in me but I _had_ to find out what happened to him. I wanted to know why he stopped writing. Talent like that shouldn't be lost. It was a travesty to literature. There had to be some sort of explanation.

The following Monday, I arrived at work ready to pitch my idea to my boss. I wasn't sure what he would say but I was ready to sell the idea. After all, I worked for _Newsline_ magazine. Surely, they would appreciate a good story when it was presented to them. When my turn came up at the weekly pitch meeting, I was ready. I brought up PowerPoint and proceeded with my presentation. When I finished, I looked around the conference room and all sorts of reactions greeted me. Some looked pleased while others looked downright incredulous.

"Edward, this topic has been done many times over," Margot, our political editor sighed. "How do you propose to make your story different than everyone else's?"

I smiled. I was hoping someone was going to ask this question. I had my answer prepared.

"Actually, Margot I'm glad you asked that question," I tried to remove the smugness from my voice but I was probably doing a very poor job. "What will make my article different is I plan to get the real story straight from the horse's mouth."

"You're kidding?" One of the writer's exclaimed. "You found Swanisky?"

"Well," I hedged. "No. At least not yet."

As expected, murmurs of disbelief and some laughter erupted.

"Let me explain," I pleaded holding out my hands in supplication.

The murmurs quieted down.

"Go ahead, Edward," Marcus, my editor said.

I nodded my head in thanks. "Okay, I know most journalists hit a dead end when they try to find Swanisky. But no one has even attempted to look for him in over a decade. It was harder to find someone ten years ago but it's not that difficult now. We have the internet and free access to legal information right at our fingertips. "

I ignored some of the eye rolls from some of my fellow writers and ploughed right through. "There are many resources now that we can tap in as reporters and journalists that weren't there ten years ago."

I finished my explanation and tried hard not to run my hand through my hair nervously. I looked towards Marcus and internally cursed him for his excellent poker face. I couldn't ever tell what went on in that man's head.

"You really think you can do this?" He asked.

I nodded my head, hoping that I didn't look like an over-eager prom date.

Marcus let out a breath before tipping his chin at me. "Okay. You got yourself a project, Cullen. I'm expecting three thousand words on my desk in three weeks."

I nodded my head at him in thanks and mentally clicked my heels in joy.

By the end of the day, the adrenaline was still coursing through my body. I had brought up two decades worth of articles and information on Swanisky. I didn't know what I would need so I cast a big net. I suppose I should have narrowed it down when my eyes began to water and my stomach grumbled causing me to look over the clock on my desktop.

10:45 pm. How the hell did it get so late? I rubbed my eyes and decided to call it a day. Powering down my computer, I reached for my cell phone and I realized I had three missed calls.

One was from my mother and the other two were from Tanya. Shit, I had totally forgotten that we were supposed to have dinner with her parents tonight. Bracing myself, I dialed her number.

"Hello, Edward," she greeted calmly. However, I knew that tone. Tanya was nothing if not calculating. It's what made her a good lawyer. Unfortunately, it also made her a very formidable partner.

"Sorry, Tanya," I quickly apologized hoping to placate her. "I just have a ton of research to do and time just got away from me. In fact, I'm just leaving work now. Do you want me to pop by?"

She sighed and despite her being on the other end of the line, I can picture her rubbing that little crease between eyebrows. "It's fine. I told my parents as much. You're lucky they love you...you're lucky _I_ love you."

I smiled. "Love you too, babe. I can still pop by though. I haven't had dinner yet."

That got a chuckle out of her. "No. Don't worry about it. Just head on home. I'll see you in an hour."

After we hung up, I swung the car through the nearest drive-thru burger joint, ordered my dinner and headed home.

As soon as I entered my apartment, I tossed my keys on the hallway table before heading to my office. Powering up my laptop, I opened up Word to bring up a new document. I reached for my dinner and proceeded to stare at the blank screen as I chewed my burger.

I needed an outline. A well thought-out plan. The only problem was it was hard to figure out where to begin. It had been such a long time since Swanisky had been seen. His trail had long gone cold. It was a good thing that I'd done investigative reporting before. I at least had some sort of inkling as to how to do this.

I quickly found out the publisher of _Burning the Road_ and quickly fired off an email. All I needed was an old address and I could make my way from there.

– BtR –

Two days passed before I heard from the publisher. Two days of me constantly refreshing my inbox hoping that perhaps I'd just missed their reply. So when I received a phone call from a Gianna Bruno, I didn't know what to expect.

"Mr. Cullen, this is Gianna Bruno, Editor-in-Chief of Philadelphia Press. I believe you sent an email requesting some information about a novel that we had published almost four decades ago."

"Yes, thank you for calling me back," I calmly replied despite the fact that I could feel the stirrings of excitement in the pit of my belly.

"You are aware that Charles Swanisky has been off the radar since the mid-seventies?" I could hear the doubt in her voice.

"I understand that, Ms. Bruno. However, any information you can give would be extremely helpful. As I mentioned, I'm working on an article for _Newsline_ and – "

"- I'm well aware of the magazine you work for," she interrupted and I could hear the irritation in her voice. "I don't doubt your sincerity or the reputation of your magazine. I do know the business after all."

"My apologies," I said contritely. No need to piss off my source. "It's just that Mr. Swanisky is a tough man to find and even if you feel the information might not be relevant, it might still help."

I can hear her sigh on the other end of the line. "I would like to help you, Mr. Cullen. Unfortunately, I only took over this position eight years ago when the old editor-in-chief retired.

"Actually, he might be a good resource to try. Hang on a sec," I could hear her clicking away at her keyboard. "Here we go."

After I jotted down the name and number she had, I thanked her for her time. For a moment I stared at the piece of paper contemplating my plan of action. I sincerely hoped that the previous editor would have more information than Ms. Bruno. I knew the difficulty of my task before I started but for some reason it was just niggling at me to do this. I didn't understand the compulsion but I felt that the story needed to be told. I knew it wasn't just me that wanted to know what happened to the man who gave more than a generation of young men and women inspiration. I didn't understand how a man could write something as prolific as _Burning the Road_ just stop writing and disappear. A mind like that just doesn't stop churning. There's got to be a reason why.

– BtR –

Three days had passed and I found myself packing a bag. It was time for me to take my search on the road.

Speaking with the old editor-in-chief, a man named Mr. Aro, had gotten me some information but not much. His answers had been a bit vague, if not enigmatic. I got the feeling that he knew more than he led on. Strange though why he would keep things a secret. Charles Swanisky was a well-known loner. As far as the world knew, the man didn't have any close friends. Any relatives he had had all passed away. So why did his old publisher, a man who made money off of his work, would keep Swanisky's confidence?

As vague as he had been with his answers, Mr. Aro did mention something that stuck in my mind. Perhaps the best way for me to find Swanisky was to trace his steps. To follow the journey he wrote about in his book.


End file.
